


I Don't Like Being Handed Things

by LoireLoa



Series: Quirks [1]
Category: Iron Man (Comics), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Dogs, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Howard Stark's Bad Parenting, Jealousy, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tragedy, the dog dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 21:42:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19732330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoireLoa/pseuds/LoireLoa
Summary: Everyone who's ever heard of Tony Stark knows the eccentric billionaire doesn't like being handed things.





	I Don't Like Being Handed Things

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story in which the dog dies - you have been warned.

Anyone who grew up in the 70s and followed celebrity culture could tell you that Tony Stark was a precocious child. Built his first circuit board at 4, his first engine at 8. By ten, he’d perfected his press smile, and by 13 he’d developed his trademark of wearing sunglasses all the time. He was known to be eccentric, even as a child, and there were dozens of personality quirks and strange preferences that attributed to him in the tabloids. Mostly, they just played to his image, making him seem even more peculiar and larger-than-life than his genius could alone. Other times they got in the way, making him seem childish or selfish or impulsive. Of all the quirks people associated with him though, his reluctance to accept anything that was handed to him was the most notorious - and the most baffling. People wondered as to the reason behind it; did he think he was too good to receive things? Did he have issues with his fine motor control? Was he simply being a jerk? All of those things were speculated - and more besides - but none of them were quite true. In the late 1990s, a guest psychologist on a daytime TV program theorized that it was a result of PTSD. She was ignored, of course - what could a man who had everything possibly be traumatized about? The host practically laughed her off set, and she later refused to ever go back on that show again because of it. People seemed to think she was crazy just for suggesting it, but the craziest thing about it wasn’t that she’d suggested it.

It was that she was _right_.

\----------

“Tony!”

“Tony! Boy don’t you hear me calling you?” Howard Stark strode out of the house, fury marking his face. “What are you doing out here that you’re too busy to answer me, boy?”  
A small, dark haired child looked up from his self-appointed task. “I found a puppy! She’s hurt, so I was helping her.”  
“Did you now?” Howard muttered gruffly. “And I suppose a dog is more important than me, hmm? Is that right?”  
“Well, no, but…. she was hurt. See?” The child, who looked to be _just_ old enough to be starting elementary school, held up the small brown dog for his father to see. The white bandage around its middle was applied with a degree of skill and precision one would typically not expect of a child that still took naps, but Tony Stark was no ordinary child.  
“Well, that’s too bad. I’ll have Jarvis take it -”  
“ _Her_ -”  
“ - in to be looked at. I’m sure somebody’s missing her.”  
“What if they’re not? What if no one claims her?” Tony worried. “Can I keep her?”  
“We’ll cross that bridge if and when we come to it.”

\----------

“It’s ok Sunshine, you can stay here! I’ll look after you, and I’ll love you forever and ever. Everything will be great, you’ll see.”

It was a promise that Tony had meant with all of his 6 year old heart, and he intended to keep it. But whatever had happened to Sunshine before he’d found her was something that she couldn’t fully recover from. She wasn’t able to run or climb as well as other dogs, and couldn’t eat what other dogs ate. She was delicate, always stumbling and limping along behind him, but Tony didn’t mind. She was his first friend, and he loved her. She was soft and warm, and she always knew just how to cheer him up. The days after he and Jarvis brought her home were filled with joy and laughter. Jarvis had never seen the child so happy and playful, and for those few, short months, Tony was just like any other child. 

But, like most good things in Tony’s life, Sunshine would not last. 

\----------

“Sir, are you _sure_ about this?” Jarvis asked nervously. Howard had just returned from one of his trips to the arctic, and was in a particularly foul mood. Neither Maria nor Anthony had been there to greet him at the door, and - denied his hero’s welcome - he’d gone searching for them. Maria was not home at all, having gone out for lunch with the ladies, and Tony… well. Tony had been outside with Sunshine, who was limping a bit more than usual.

“He loves that damn dog more than he loves me!” Howard bellowed, already several drinks in and well beyond tipsy. “It’s a disgrace!”  
“He’s a lonely child sir,” Jarvis replied, trying (and failing) to dissuade Howard from taking out his poor mood and insecurities on his only child. “It’s normal for him to play.”  
“It’s _deviant_ is what it is,” came the slurred response, “and I _will not have it in my house!_ ”  
“Sir, really -”  
“I want it gone!”  
“- you’re overreacting.”  
“Get rid of it!”  
Jarvis stared at Howard, who was blisteringly angry now, and had consumed an ounce of scotch for every minute he’d been home. “No,” he stated calmly. He would not break Tony’s heart, just to sooth Howard’s ego. 

Howard stared back at him, outraged and speechless. Slowly, his face - ruddy already from the alcohol - reddened further. “Fine,” he spat. “I’ll do it myself.”

Jarvis watched him storm from the room with a sense of dread. Nothing good could come of this. 

\----------

“Tony!”

The child in question found himself snatched up off the grass. For a moment he was weightless, the pain in his shoulder the only thing anchoring him to the earth. A moment later, gravity reasserted itself, his ankle rolling as he landed roughly on his feet. “Take this,” his father commanded, shoving something heavy and cold and metallic into his small hands, “take it!”  
“I - I don’t -”  
“Hold it like this.”  
“But papa -”  
“Hold it! Can’t you fucking follow directions for one goddamned minute?” Tony recoiled from his father. He reeked of alcohol, and while _that_ wasn’t new the crazed look upon his face certainly was.  
“I don’t - what’s going -”  
“Now aim it over there.” Tony’s small, trembling hands were covered by his father’s much larger ones, and Tony found that he couldn’t get away, no matter how desperately he wanted to. _And oh, how he wanted to._  
“But Sunshine! Papa, Sunshine is -”  
There was pressure on his fingers, then a loud _bang!_ , then nothing. He did not get to say what Sunshine was - _where_ Sunshine was. 

He would never say, because Sunshine was dead. 

\----------

Secretary number whatever-he’s-on-now held out a plain yellow file folder, full of papers that he’s absolutely certain she thinks are important. He stares at her, at the folder, at her again. For several moments this goes on, until she finally breaks the uncomfortable silence.

“Mr Stark?”

“Set it on the desk,” he says softly, gesturing to the other side of the room. A well-organized workspace - made exclusively from parts salvaged from the car his parents were driving the night they died - is situated in front of the large window. The chair, too is made of salvaged car parts, as is the visitor’s chair, and the couch on which he is currently reclining. His feet are resting on a steel coffee table, that had once been the trunk.

“But I have it right here, and it’ll only take a -”  
“Set it on the desk,” he says again, more firmly. His tone brooks no argument. 

“I don’t like being handed things.”


End file.
